“Shall I play Luther’s Christmas hymn for you, uncle, dear?” inquired Gloria, as she seated herself before the piano.
“Yes, love, thank you, play that, but no more; for I wish to talk with you and settle something before I can take any interest in anything else,” he replied.
Gloria sat down and played and sang with all her usual feeling, spirit and charm.
When she had finished her hymn, she arose and went to the fire and seated herself beside her guardian; for she also wished to talk to him, and “settle something” which she believed would content them both.
Colonel de Crespigney was the first to speak.
“I was too sudden with you this morning, dear. I did not stop to consider how your nerves had been shaken by the frightful accident of yesterday, and so I startled you by a too abrupt disclosure of my feelings.” He paused a moment, and then added: “I beg you to forgive my want of consideration, dear child, and to let me hope——” He paused again, and she took his hand and said kindly:
“Say no more about it, uncle, dear. I understand—I understand—and I have something to reply, presently.”
“You understand, and yet you call me uncle!” he said, wincing.
“It was a slip of the tongue, Marcel, dear. A mere matter of habit. I will learn to call you anything you please, so that I may make you happy,” she answered, affectionately.
“And you will let me hope—you will let me hope—that some day, not far off, you will give yourself to me entirely; you will be my own, my precious, my pearl beyond price, my best gift of God—MY WIFE?” he breathed, in low, deep, intense tones, while his whole dark face grew radiant with happiness. He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. She drew her hand away, averted her head and shrank from him.